Shake Me To The Core
by Demisexual-Consulting-Hunter
Summary: Sherlock had always been the master of his emotions, but what if a certain former army doctor changes that?
1. Chapter 1

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Summary: Sherlock had always prided himself on being the true master of his emotions, but what if a certain former army doctor changes that?  
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes or the BBC series.

He had always prided himself on his reason. His logic and deduction skills were trophies he flaunted whenever he could. He was never irrational; he was always in his right mind, a true master of his emotions.

Why was it then that he found his self-control slipping as of late? It perplexed his shrewd mind, the subtle change in his thinking, the shift in focus. He could not pinpoint why he had altered, or how, but he had a suspicion as to when it had begun.

The day Dr. John Watson walked into his laboratory was by no means an out-of-the-ordinary day. Simple, cloudy, a little rainy, bad traffic, such is London.

And such was that day.

He had glanced for a total of 3.2 seconds, but that had been enough to deduce where the sandy-haired stranger had come from: military, Afghanistan, (or was it Iraq?), psychosomatic limp. Sherlock saw words attached to certain body parts as he gazed: the way he carried himself, tan-lines around his cuffs, his cane and leg.

He had been brief in his introduction, careful to drop just enough information to intrigue the gentleman into meeting him at 221b. He really needed a flatmate, and this man had…something about him that made Sherlock trust him almost instantly.

That bothered him. He did not trust most people and he definitely did not trust at first glance. There was just…something there that he found he liked. Maybe it was the military stance, authoritative and screaming of "good Samaritan?" No, Sherlock knew many other military men, and none had held his attention for this long. In fact, many of them just irritated him. He leaned back in his armchair, staring into the fireplace.

Perhaps it was the fact that he had taken his bait so easily. John had swallowed his every clever word. But, no, that could not be the reason because plenty of people reacted that way to his admittedly impressive deduction skills, but he did not allow all of them to live with him.

There had to be something, some reason for the distraction. He shifted in his chair, and his eyes fell on the one opposite him. The one John always sat in. His mind wandered a bit to the night before, when he and John had been bantering and laughing in their chairs next to the fire. John's hair had looked like gold in the light, his skin looking almost rosy and utterly touchable in that moment. Sherlock had almost wanted to lean forward and skim his hand over John's, just to see if he was as soft as he looked.

Sherlock generally filed his life experiences away according to whether or not they would be useful later. Sometimes, however, in would slip one or two that had no particular use but came with their own flicker of emotion.

That night happened to be one of them.

Sherlock pulled it forward, replaying the event in his mind. He allowed himself to relive the emotions he had felt.

Purely for science, of course.

He had like the way John had laughed at his jokes, how his eyes would light up as he listened to Sherlock ramble out his opinions. John had a crooked smile that made Sherlock feel symptoms akin to a heart attack, and he had used it on Sherlock a lot that night. Sherlock remembered feeling warmth radiating through his skin when John brushed his hand while handing him a cup of tea.

Warm was how Sherlock had felt. Not just outside, which the roaring fireplace and his sweater had caused, but inside. He had felt…well, the only word that came to mind was absurd. Sherlock had never felt "loved" before. Not like that. He had felt kinship for his brother, appreciation for Lestrade, protective over Mrs. Hudson, and a small flicker of alliance with Molly Hooper, but never warmth like what John gave him. This…fire, so to speak, that John had created within him consumed him whenever he so much as passed a thought across the doctor.

It was starting to change him.

The world had shifted, grey bleeding into brilliant hues he never dreamed to see, the sun felt just a fraction warmer, his heart a little lighter. He smiled openly, laughed more, and melodies poured out of his violin whenever he played, which was often now. Composing was becoming easier, and in every note he penned into the page, he found John. He found him in the dips and curves of the eighteenth rests, felt him the in the trembling bow, heard his essence dripping off every note Sherlock threw into the air.

This particular evening he was not playing his music, however. He was sitting in front of the fireplace in the manner that John called "perching", with his arms wrapped around his knees.

Sherlock was so lost in his thoughts that he heard the front door open exactly 5.6 seconds after he should have. John walking through the door was not a surprise, but the sudden flare of the warmth was. It started when Sherlock met his eyes and travelled down the base of his spine, spreading to his solar plexus and making his heart jump erratically. He made a mental note to get that checked.

"Hello, John," he said, keeping his dialogue simple. The sooner he eliminated causes and got to the root of his problem, the better.

"Hello. How was your day?" John replied, sitting across from Sherlock, in precisely the same position as that night. Sherlock shoved the memory back in its box, noting to take it out later for further examining.

"It was unproductive, unfortunately." Sherlock left it at that, suddenly afraid of saying something that would tip John off.

"Mine was entirely too productive," John sighed. Sherlock had already deduced that from the slump of his shoulders and the sheen of oil on his face, but he bit his tongue. Now was not the moment for that.

"I wish we could have traded," he said instead, smiling a little. John echoed the grin and relaxed in his chair. Sherlock read the sentences of his body language: I'm home, I'm safe, my best friend is here.

Safe. Sherlock tried to stop the rush of satisfaction and pride that welled up inside of him. John felt safe around him. Sherlock had made someone else, another living being, feel something akin to happiness.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Sherlock's mouth arched into a smile. John looked content, leaning forward toward the fire, elbows resting on knees. From his "perch" Sherlock could see the curve of John's spine. Graceful, his mind supplied.

He wondered whether this was the cause of poetry. When people feel real affection for one another, they try to make sense of it in colourful words that supply their minds with sensory pointers. An emotion tends to make more sense to people if they are able to relate it to something tangible. For Sherlock, no emotion ever made sense. They just got in the way. He managed to make it through most of his life not succumbing to the power they held over logic, but this time it seemed, his hormones had betrayed him.

He did not want to like the way John laughed; he did not want to feel so warm and comfortable around him. He wanted his world to make sense again; cold, hard facts and logic. Why did this feeling have to get in the way? And why did he have to not only like it, but want to feel more of it?

"Sherlock, are you listening?" John said, effectively snapping Sherlock back into reality.

"I'm sorry, what?" came the reply as he locked eyes with John. Something about the way John's eyes looked made Sherlock's heart jump around like before. He sincerely hoped it wasn't a sign of an early heart condition.

"I asked you about the case you were offered." John repeated, rubbing his hands together. "Did you take it?"

"No. I informed them that there was currently a pressing matter to which I had to attend, but I thanked them for their time." Sherlock curled his arms tighter around his knees.

"You haven't had a case in ages. What could be so pressing that you had to say no?" John's eyes widened as he spoke.

"I am currently undergoing a study into human interaction." Sherlock managed. There, not exactly a lie.

John merely looked perplexed. "How could you possibly study that? The only humans you interact with are me, Mrs Hudson, and half of Scotland Yard."

"Self-interaction is not necessary, John. I wish to study how society works by observing humans interacting with each other." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

John leaned back and picked up his paper. "You'll have to get out a lot more for that to work," he replied scathingly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, "I get out plenty."

John just turned back to his paper and snorted.


	2. Chapter 2

Winter had arrived at 221B with a bang. The fireplace had been going most of the day but the living room still had a draft coming from God-knows-where. Sherlock had donned his favourite robe, but when that had failed to keep him warm, had stuck into John's room to nick one of his jumpers. He assumed John wouldn't find out since he was currently at work. Sherlock made a mental note to put it back before John came home.

Unfortunately, most of Sherlock's day was filled by clients and then later by a very deep and complex puzzle sent via email by Mycroft as an early Christmas present. By the time 8:00 p.m. rolled around, John had come home from work and Sherlock was still holed up on his laptop, hallway through the puzzle.

"What are you doing in my jumper?" was John's greeting.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned. John was still in his coat and holding a substantial amount of the shopping. He looked weary, but his eyes were kind.

"It was cold in here today and frankly, the robe was unsatisfactory," he replied, toying with his cuff, "You don't mind do you?"

John set down the bags and smiled, "No, I don't mind."

Sherlock returned the smile and turned back to his laptop. John mumbled something just out of Sherlock's range.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head, his eyes following John as he crossed the room.

"I was just commenting on how…"John began, his voice trailing off midway through. Sherlock scanned his body: tight shoulders, stiff back, smile just a little too strained. John was uncomfortable with whatever he was about to say.

"Go on." Sherlock prompted, locking eyes with John. Just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of that…something. That same something that made Sherlock feel that spark.

It was gone as quickly as it had come.

"I was just saying that you look good," John continued, then shook his head, "Almost…handsome really."

Sherlock felt heat rising around his neck, which was absurd, of course. He felt the warmth travel to his stomach.

"You think so?" he asked, one side of his mouth quirking. John's cheeks were just a fraction darker than they usually were. Sherlock wondered what was going on behind the eyes currently trained on his own.

"I do, I mean…you are, from an objective point of course, a rather…good looking man." John stammered, the colour rising slightly, "I mean, I'm not attract-that is to say…um, being a…man like me, I can appreciate that you are…handsome." He finished rather lamely.

"What do you mean, a man like you?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing.

John shifted his weight, "You know…straight."

Sherlock's eyes widened, "Oh. I see," Sherlock looked him dead on. "John, you don't have to be gay to appreciate a man's looks."

"I know that, I just…" John was suddenly very interested in the carpet.

Sherlock turned back to his laptop. He understood, there was no need for John to say anything more. He allowed John to recover from his embarrassment by not bringing it up for the rest of the night. He just hoped John did not notice his smirks.


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost Christmas in London again and for the first time in a long time, Sherlock was beginning to feel the spirit. He had spent most of the last few weeks shopping with John, who admittedly had many more people to buy for, and helping decorate 221b. He had felt the warmth throughout much of the decorating, but he resolutely blamed it on the soft lights on the tree, the Christmas carols on the radio, and the season's first snow.

The day Sherlock marked off the number 23 on his calendar was the day John came home with the shopping and a bottle of wine. Sherlock stood up to help him with the bags and took the bottle from him. It was not cheap wine, he thought as he examined the label. John must have some money squirrelled away somewhere. He watched as John crossed the room to turn on the radio.

The familiar tune of "The Christmas Song" was playing in the background as John brushed past Sherlock to fetch glasses from the kitchen. After some rummaging and unearthing a few bottles of chemicals, John set the wine glasses down on the end table. Sherlock had opened the bottle and concentrated on pouring out a little wine for both of them, intent on not letting John's body heat distract him.

John gave a little satisfied sound as Sherlock handed him his glass.

"To our second Christmas on Baker Street," John announced, holding his glass to Sherlock's.

"And to our second Christmas together," Sherlock finished, seeing John's eyes light up. This time, Sherlock did not fight the warmth; he let it fill him up, and suddenly, the loneliness he didn't even know he had felt was gone. I'm home. I'm safe. My best friend is here.

Their glasses clinked, they drank, the song on the radio changed to a slower, more suggestive "Santa Baby." The tune was erotic, but Sherlock had always found the lyrics reason to cringe. John must have picked up on Sherlock's disgust.

"God, I know. Who would lust after Santa?" He laughed, "It's just wrong."

Sherlock chuckled, "I've always liked the tune, but the lyrics leave something to be desired."

John nodded, one side of his mouth still upturned. For some reason, Sherlock's brain began to focus on how close John was standing. Sherlock could see the lines around his eyes, every thread in his jumper. He felt a tinkling sensation in his stomach and tried to take a calming breath. Instead, he got the scent of John's cologne and aftershave, and the warmth moved lower, much lower than before, settling in his hips and pelvis. He tried to get a hold of himself.

Sherlock was the first to admit that when it came to human relationships, he knew next to nothing. He had never gone through the hormonal stages of puberty, preferring books to groping. He had never really experienced sexual arousal, and though he had attempted to masturbate in his youth, it had never produced the desired effects that had boys his age entranced. In his 20s Sherlock accepted that he would never find anyone who produced that effect in him, and while that didn't bother him so much, he had felt lonely ever since.

Until now. Until that day.

Sherlock may not be experienced in this area, but he knew enough about it to know what he was feeling. He knew what chemicals were firing off in his brain at that moment.

Seeing John echoing his warmth back to him, feeling his body heat, and smelling his scent had a peculiar effect on Sherlock. He was momentarily hit with a flood of images he had never considered before: John was so close, it would be so easy to lean over, to reach out and run his fingers through his hair, to his face or neck, to stroke his skin, to make him—

'Sherlock, are you okay?" John's voice was very there, and very effective at snapping Sherlock out of his revere.

"Oh yeah," Sherlock mentally shook himself, "Just fine. Thinking."

John smiled, leaning into Sherlock unconsciously, "Oh yeah. I wonder what goes on in that head of yours quite a lot."

John poured out his third glass of wine, and offered Sherlock more, who declined. His brain was taking on a fuzzy edge, and he wanted his thinking unclouded. He wanted to get to the bottom of this.

John was halfway through his glass as Sherlock leaned past him to set his own down. He straightened up and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets just as John finished his wine. John glanced at the bottle, appearing to want more, but Sherlock wasn't worried. He knew John could hold his liquor. He knew he would stop well before it altered his judgement.

John had freed himself of his glass, and was now facing Sherlock, a twinkle in his eye. Sherlock filed that away for later.

"So," John began, scratching the back of his neck, "Are you going to accept Molly's annual invitation to her Christmas party?"

Sherlock smirked a little, "No. The poor girl, she knows I am not interested in the slightest, yet she continues to pursue me."

John pursed his lips, "Well, who could blame her?" he said boldly.

Sherlock was a bit taken aback, but pulled it together. "How do you mean?"

"The world's only consulting detective who also happens to be a first-class genius?" John laughed.

"Ah, she wouldn't like me all that much," Sherlock argued, "There is only one person who even halfway tolerates me."

John scoffed, "I do a lot more than that, you know," he touched Sherlock's arm briefly (Sherlock was beginning to worry about his heart rate), "I actually like you."

Sherlock smiled, "Oh really?"

John looked suspicious, "Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"No, no, just curious as to why," Sherlock answered, "As far as I can tell, I have very few redeeming qualities."

That seemed to be enough to get the ball rolling. Sherlock silently thanked the makers of expensive wine.

"You have some. You are human sometimes, like that time with Mrs Hudson. And you actually have a great sense of humour, dry though it is." John's pupils dilated as he spoke, "You are massively intelligent and you're frustrating and cluttered and you never get the shopping, but you…are worth it."

And with that revelation, Sherlock knew he was a goner. He had no idea what to do, or how this relationship garbage worked, but he knew that he wanted to try.

"God, John," he managed, "That was very…I want to…um." He trailed off, awkward.

John seemed to know what Sherlock was trying to say, "What do you want, Mr Holmes?" he teased, softly touching Sherlock's cuff.

Sherlock's eyes fixated on the contact, "I think we both know the answer to that."


	4. Chapter 4

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**Update:** Hello followers! Alright since most of you know by now I am working on another fic that was requested by a friend of mine, so updates to this fic might be a little far between, but I promise I am not giving up on this fic! Thank you!

And apparently, that was all the answer John needed. He reached up, hesitantly skimming his fingertips against Sherlock's cheekbones. Sherlock stiffened but John did not pull away. He ran his fingers down and across to place feather touches to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock felt his eyes flutter shut at the touch, wanting to feel more of John against him. He was so caught up in this, and he was scared as hell, but he liked the warmth and touch, but he was confused and…

Lips. Soft, plush, warm lips tasting of wine and sugar pressed to his, effectively sending his mind into a spastic fit. He began to sort the sensations into folders: soft, warm, wet, the way John's breathing puffed against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through his body, the way John's hands were strong and steady on his face. In all the haze and confusion, Sherlock found that he was pressing into John, increasing the pressure.

John whimpered a little in the back of his throat and gently parted Sherlock's lips with his own. The rush, the haze of soft skin and wetness made Sherlock stop breathing. He felt as though he were standing on a stage somewhere wrapped in his sheet. He did not like feeling this venerable, so he slowed the kiss until it rested somewhere between fluttery breathing and impossibly sweet, slow caresses.

John rested the tips of his fingers on Sherlock's face, pressing himself against him, but not like before. This time it wasn't desperate need for heat and skin and the desire to rut against someone. This was heady and desperate in a way Sherlock didn't understand. It felt like drowning, like John was trying to pull him above the waterline.

It felt like dying.

And then the kiss became something even more confusing. Sherlock attempted to keep up while John wrapped his arms around his neck and clung to him, puffs of air feeling their way across his lips. It was unendingly…romantic. Almost too much, and Sherlock felt naked with emotion. He had never liked feelings. They always got in the way, and once he started, it was difficult to stop.

He didn't like the sudden rush of cold air as John pulled away either, but apparently the need to breathe had overcome him. Sherlock opened his eyes, even though he hadn't recalled closing them, and took in what kissing made John look like. His lips were puffy and shiny, his eyes over-bright with wine and lust.

"That was…" he started, not sure how to express exactly what was running through his mind.

John still had his hand on Sherlock's, gently tracing circles into his skin. It was extremely distracting. Sherlock struggled for several minutes before he was silenced with a tender kiss from John, who pulled away quickly and locked eyes with him, his hand coming up to stroke Sherlock's jaw.

"I know. You don't have to say it, it's just…I know." John told him, smiling a little.

And in that moment, that's all Sherlock needed to hear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Update:** Hello readers! Okay, this is the last chapter of Shake Me To The Core, since this story is sort of a one-shot, but I promise this won't be my last Johnlock story. I hope you all like it and continue with me. I'm already working on my next Johnlock story. Thank you!  
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John and Sherlock had not discussed the events that occurred at Christmas. In any other case that would have been ideal for Sherlock, but because it was him and John, somehow, this bothered him to no end. He was becoming more and more anxious every time John so much as looked at him.

John, on the other hand, had taken his course of action to new, confusing waters. He was smiling more, taking extra care of Sherlock, he had more patience and had added ten more minutes to his morning routine. Sherlock had no idea why he was acting as though he had won the lottery.

He was also touching Sherlock more often, becoming increasingly more intimate. A pat on the shoulder had changed to an arm around shoulders, or John's hand on Sherlock's face or neck. As far as he could tell, John did not seem to be catching the anxiety-bug that had infected Sherlock.

"Will you stop staring at me? For God's sake, I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin…" John grumbled from behind his laptop. Sherlock mentally shook himself; he hadn't been aware he was staring.

"I'm sorry," he replied, quickly picking up The Great Gatsby from the table next to him and hiding behind it.

Sherlock heard John set his laptop aside and sigh. He didn't dare look at him head on, not wanting to read the expression on his face, or the reasons behind it.

"You okay?" John asked, and Sherlock could hear the concern in his voice. More confusing data.

"I'm fine. Nothing to worry yourself about," he answered, keeping his voice calm and bland. He could hear John shift in his chair.

"Sherlock, look at me," John said. Sherlock lowered his book reluctantly and immediately his mind catalogued every emotion on John's face.

"We need to talk," his kind doctor said, his forehead creasing. Sherlock sighed and stared John in the face, patiently waiting for him to explain his sudden moroseness.

"What's wrong? You know, ever since we—"he paused, looking down, "Ever since Christmas you've been acting differently."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned at John, who had become rather pink around his nose.

"Well, for one, you've been staring at me like I've grown another head. And you've been acting like I'm a bomb about to go off." John said blatantly, before adding in a kinder voice, "What's going on? Is this about Christmas? Did I make you uncomfortable?"

Sherlock shook his head, and for the first time in his life, didn't know the exact words to say.

"I just…You, after—Christmas," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, wondering if this is what social embarrassment felt like, "You just started being…affectionate. Was there something I was supposed to have done? I'm just not…I don't understand."

Something in John's expression changed and he immediately burst into laughter. Sherlock stared at him until he regained composure.

"Oh God, Sherlock, you don't realize...Do you want me to spell it out for you?" John said, but not unkindly. He looked sympathetic for some reason, and Sherlock was plagued by the familiar feeling that he only got with John: the feeling that he was missing something in his own consciousness. Like John saw something in him that he didn't catch.

Sherlock nodded, and John leaned forward, holding out his hands. Sherlock hesitated, and then put his hands in John's, wondering why the physical contact was so important.

"I kissed you because I wanted to. Not because I was drunk, or confused, or trying to trick you," John said softly.

His eyes were a deep violet-blue in the morning light. The more Sherlock stared at them, the more naked he felt.

"I keep trying to get close to you, emotionally and physically, is because I have feelings for you. Deep, intense, romantic, probably-not-that-healthy feelings." John was rubbing circles into Sherlock's palm, and Sherlock had begun to flush, which was ridiculous.

"They may have been buried deep, but kissing you at Christmas made me realize that…I want to be with you." John's voice was small, but his face was warm and Sherlock could tell that this was a difficult thing for him to express. He unconsciously felt himself drawing nearer.

"Why?" Was the only thing Sherlock could think of to ask. He had been alone his whole life, set apart from everyone else. He had resigned himself to the fact that no one could ever love him long ago. In fact, up until the day John killed someone to save him, he wasn't even sure he was capable of loving anyone.

John looked bemused, "Because, like I said at Christmas, you are worth it. You're worth all the trouble, and the silly experiments, and freezing my arse off chasing criminals through London," John reached up and put his hand on Sherlock's jaw and Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch, "You fit me. Was I so wrong to think the feeling is mutual?"

Sherlock reached up to softly stroke John's hand, his eyes still closed, "No, John. You weren't wrong. I just…didn't understand. It's very difficult for me to…express how I feel sometimes," He opened his eyes and grimaced, "I don't like emotions. They get in the way, they taint the evidence. But with you…" He caught John's gaze, and the warmth he saw there made his stomach flip, "I want to feel."

John caught his hand and pressed a light kiss to it. He smiled at Sherlock, letting him know that there would be many more kisses, and smiles, and companionship, because he was Sherlock and John was John.

And somehow, they fit.


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